A Consulting Detective, a Nurse, and a Housekeeper
by storylover18
Summary: When John falls ill, Sherlock and Mary argue over who has the right to take care of him. When this gets too much for John, he goes somewhere quiet to get some much needed TLC. Set after TSoT but before HLV.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello everyone! Finally, I'm able to post some new material … this is set after the wedding but before **_**His Last Vow**_**, which I haven't seen (although I know what happens so please disregard the slightly OOC nature of the characters and their interactions in this). I hope you enjoy! **

Sherlock was pacing in front of the smiley face wall, his dressing gown billowing behind him. He was thinking about a pending case – it hadn't happened yet but Sherlock knew that it was only a matter of time before it did – but something felt wrong.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

A moment later, the older woman appeared in his door.

"What have you done?" Sherlock demanded.

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a frown.

"The flat. It's different, something is off."

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow.

"I haven't done anything."

"You must have. Did you move something? Break something?"

"Of course not, you know you never let me touch your things. Why would you ask such a thing?"

Sherlock huffed.

"Because I can't _think_!" he exploded. "Something is wrong, something's missing."

Mrs. Hudson stepped into the room and saw the map of papers and strings on her wall – she sighed, though she was used to the marks and at this point was thankful that they were just push pins and not bullet holes.

"Ugh!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I can't think, why will this not _work_?!"

Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"Perhaps you should give John a call."

Sherlock stopped short and slowly turned around to face her.

"What did you say?"

"You should call John?" Mrs. Hudson repeated, asking rather than telling. Sherlock straightened and tilted his head, staring at the wall.

"Of course!" he exclaimed suddenly, making his 'housekeeper' jump. "Mrs. Hudson, when you're not annoying, you're a saint."

"Thank you," Mrs. Hudson answered dryly as Sherlock pulled out his mobile.

[Sent 15:35] Baker Street. Case. SH

[Sent 15:37] Important. SH

[Sent 15:39] REALLY important. SH

[Sent 15:41] John. SH

[Sent 15:43] If you're not going to come, you could at least tell me. SH

Mrs. Hudson had moved into the kitchen to clean up last night's cooking and jumped when Sherlock let out another non-verbal exclamation.

"What is it now?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a sigh.

"John," Sherlock said, pulling on his coat. "He's annoying me."

Sherlock didn't say anything else as he left Baker Street and got a cab to John and Mary's flat. He continued to bombard John's mobile with texts while in the taxi but he knocked on the front door rather than barge right in. One time he'd done that and caught John and Mary in an intimate position – Sherlock didn't really see the problem but John flew off the handle (quite over-reacting, Sherlock thought) – and now John insisted he always knock.

The detective waited impatiently at the door until Mary finally appeared.

"You weren't shagging again, were you?" Sherlock asked dryly, pushing past her.

"Nice to see you, too," Mary replied, closing the door.

"Where's John? He's not answering my texts."

"He's ill."

Sherlock scoffed.

"John, ill? He hasn't been ill the entire time I've known him. You must be mistaken."

He strode through their sitting room, trailed by Mary.

"I'm not," Mary said with an amused smile.

"Must be," Sherlock repeated, pushing the bedroom door open. "John, your wife is telling me the most ridiculous thing, clearly a lie to cover up whatever you and she were doing - "

Sherlock stopped midsentence once he was a few steps into the bedroom. John was in bed, paradoxically simultaneously pale and flushed. He smiled weakly and held up a hand in greeting.

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock asked bluntly. "I've seen corpses that look better."

Mary, who had followed Sherlock into the room, answered.

"I told you, he's ill."

"You're never ill."

"Apparently not true," John croaked and he flinched as he spoke. Sore throat, Sherlock deduced.

"Clearly." He said shortly, taking off his coat and blazer and tossing them on the chair in the corner. He rolled up his sleeves.

"What do you think you're doing?" Mary asked, a half-eaten bowl of now cold soup in her hands.

"Caring for him, of course," Sherlock said as though this was obvious. "I need his help so I need to get him better."

"What do you think I'm doing?" Mary exclaimed.

"You're clearly not doing a very good job," Sherlock said, going to John's side of the bed and picking up the thermometer on the edge of the bed and putting it into John's mouth.

Mary raised an eyebrow at John, who looked rather uncomfortable by the row. Sherlock had picked up his wrist and was checking John's pulse.

"I was doing just fine," Mary said. "There's not a lot to do for flu to being with."

"Shouldn't you be avoiding him for the sake of the baby?"

"I'm fine."

"He's clearly contagious, you don't want to get sick. You're already considered high risk by the WHO guidelines for influenza."

"I work at a clinic," Mary replied. "I'm exposed to all sorts of things every day."  
"Can't be too careful."

Mary merely rolled her eyes and went into the kitchen to deal with the discarded meal.

"I thought she'd never leave," Sherlock said cheerfully, dropping John's wrist. With the thermometer still taking the reading, Sherlock felt John's glands in his neck, which he found to be horribly swollen. The device signalled its end and Sherlock glanced at it.

"You're aware that you have a low grade fever?" Sherlock said and John nodded.

"Yes," he answered with a sigh. "What was it?"

"Thirty eight point six." Sherlock answered.

"Point two degrees higher than this morning."

"Which makes sense," Sherlock replied. "Temperatures normally rise mid to late afternoon. How do you not know that?"

"I didn't say I didn't," John mumbled and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Nauseous?"

"Queasy," John answered. "Not hungry."

"Congestion?"

"Slight."

"Dizziness?"

"Yes. And light-headed."

"Medicine given?"

"Two extra strength cold and flu tablets every three hours."

"Effective?"

"Minimally."

"Hydration?"

"As much as I can," John said with a sigh.

"Resting?"

"Hard to do much else when I can't even get out of bed."

"I'd say it's a touch of flu." Sherlock announced.

"I could have told you that," Mary said, coming in again. "He's been sick for a day and a half now. The most severe symptoms will start to clear up in the next day or two."  
She smiled sympathetically at John, who sighed again.

"Why did you not call me?" Sherlock asked, looking down at John.

"Because he has me," Mary said. "I'm a nurse, after all. I think I can handle a simple case of flu."

"Don't be ridiculous. Having you hover over him would annoy John to no end."

"Is that so?" Mary asked, sounding amused.

"Of course it is," Sherlock said. "But he's too nice to say that to your face so I'll say it for him."

Mary frowned slightly, glancing at John who shifted uncomfortably.

"Is that true, John?"

"'Course not," he mumbled, rolling over and closing his eyes as he pressed his face into the cool side of the pillow.

"Don't listen to him," Sherlock immediately said. "It must be the fever, he's delirious."

"No, he's not!" Mary exclaimed. "John, tell him!"

"Yes, John, do tell me that you'd rather your overprotective wife look after you than your best friend."

John coughed weakly.

"Can we not have this conversation?" he asked tiredly.

"Does that mean he's right?" Mary accused.

"Of course it does," Sherlock said coolly.

John squeezed his eyes closed tightly as he felt his stomach tighten uncomfortably.

"Sherlock, Mary, please," he mumbled. "This is not helping."

"Did you hear that?" Sherlock said to Mary. "It's not helping. Go knit or something."

"No!" Mary said indignantly. "You said you have a case, go work on that."

"I said I need his help, I didn't say I had a case," Sherlock corrected.

"_Please_," John moaned.

"Sherlock, you need to leave. He needs rest."

"I'm not stopping him from resting," Sherlock said.

"You're not helping him rest, either."

John instantly knew he was going to be sick and rather than making it to the toilet – he wouldn't have had time – he rolled over and threw up onto the floor due to the absence of a bin.

"Now look what you've done!" Mary exclaimed as John coughed and threw up again.

"John," Sherlock said fiercely. "Take deep breaths, you're alright."  
John gasped for air, sitting up before falling back against his pillow and scrubbing his mouth with his hand. Mary came up next to Sherlock, reaching around him for the bottle of water on the bedside table.

"Here Love," she said sympathetically. John shakily sat up and took the water. He sipped at it, coughing again and Sherlock reached out to take the bottle from him.

"You're alright," he told John before looking at Mary. "Could you clean up the floor?"

Mary gave him an annoyed glance.

"Don't think that I'm agreeing because you're right," she said. "But someone needs to clean the carpet and it won't be you."

"Of course it won't be," Sherlock said, looking back at John. He helped John take another sip and then lay down again.

"At least she's being useful now," Sherlock mentioned, straightening the bed coverings.

"Sherlock," John mumbled with a sigh. "She was doing fine."

"Well, now that I'm here, I'm going to get you up and about in no time flat."

John opened his eyes wearily.

"No experiments."

"Are you sure? I'm working on this compound that's designed to - "

"No." John said firmly as Mary came back with a bucket and cleaning supplies, donning rubber gloves.

"Excuse me," she said to Sherlock.

"I'll be right back," Sherlock said to John, stepping out of the way so Mary could get to the carpet. He left and Mary glanced up at John.

"Sorry about him, Love," she said sympathetically. "I'll do what I can to get rid of him."

John sighed.

"He's just concerned."

"Which is fine," Mary said. "But I'm your wife. Who can take care of you better than me?"

John didn't answer.

"Besides, I'm the one cleaning up your vomit. I don't see him doing that for you."

"Sorry about that," John mumbled.

"It's alright, you couldn't help it." Mary answered. "And I'm used to it."

A moment later, Mary stood up.

"There, all finished. Try to go to sleep."

John closed her eyes as she kissed his forehead and for a brief moment, John was alone in his bedroom. He sighed deeply, hoping he could fall asleep before either one came back.

His head hurt.

**So, what do you think? I have this amazing mental picture of Mary and Sherlock arguing over John … I don't think it's particularly realistic but it's cute nonetheless. Please review! Thanks =) **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi everyone! In the spirit of procrastination, here's another chapter for you! I hope you enjoy it and thank you, as always, for your support =) **

After two hours, John was feeling worse than he had been before Sherlock's arrival. This, of course, was the cause of endless arguments between Sherlock and Mary. Sherlock was concerned that John was getting worse – empirically, he was; his temperature had gone up a degree – while Mary was annoyed that Sherlock was constantly bugging John and not letting him sleep.

"Sherlock," Mary complained when she saw him lay his hand on John's cheek for the umpteenth time in half an hour. Mrs. Watson was standing in the doorway, arms crossed. John wearily opened his eyes and glanced at her before letting them slide closed again.

"Shh!" Sherlock hissed.

"Feeling his temperature every few minutes is not going to change anything and it's just going to keep waking him up."

"That would mean I was asleep," John murmured, not bothering to open his eyes again. Mary sighed, but went into the washroom and returned with a folded face cloth. She crawled across her side of the bed and gently pressed the compress to John's forehead, cheeks, and neck. Mary assumed that Sherlock's silence symbolized approval.

The detective _did_ approve of the action – he had been going to do it himself shortly – and was carefully watching John's face. Every time Mary pressed down, despite her efforts to be gentle, lines of pain appeared around John's eyes.

"Just let it rest," he advised. "The pressure isn't helping the headache."

Mary glanced up, an eyebrow raised.

"I'm barely touching him."

"But you _are_ touching him," Sherlock said. "And it's not helping his headache, which you would see if you just observed."

John cringed slightly, more from the phrase than the pressure building behind his eyes. This would mean another row, which meant he would not fall asleep in the next five minutes.

"I am observing," Mary countered. "And what I'm observing is that it's too crowded in here. Don't you have a case or something?"

"Nothing more pressing that John's."

"I'm not a case," John murmured.

"Yes, you are," both Mary and Sherlock replied and John sighed.

"That's the first thing you've agreed on," he muttered.

"Well, you are whether you like it or not," Mary said with a gentle laugh. "Not a police case, but a medical case."

"Are you implying that I'm not qualified to look after John's 'case'?" Sherlock asked. John cringed again.

"I'm sure you would do fine but he doesn't need two of us hovering over him. Given that I'm his wife and a _nurse_, it seems to me like I'd be the most qualified."

"Right," Sherlock said. "You, who has known him sixteen months and never looked after him when he's been sick, are better than me? I've been at his bedside on more than one occasion and I've known him longer."

"I'm married to him; I'm a bit more familiar with his body than you are." Mary said coolly.

"If you're referring to the fact you've had sex, that hardly makes you a more worthy candidate," Sherlock said. "So you know how he is in bed. Great, that's crucial information for treating flu. Given that I've seen him naked, we're on even playing fields in that regard so being married to him gives you no real advantage."

Mary raised an eyebrow.

"Do I want to know why he was naked?"

"He barged in on me in the bath," John murmured and Mary let out a rough laugh before biting her lip. Despite the fever, John felt his face turn red as he re-lived the moment.

"I needed a plaster and I didn't know John was in the bath," Sherlock said defensively. "And the door wasn't locked."

"I see," Mary said with a smile, glancing at John. Sherlock followed her gaze and rolled his eyes.

"For goodness sake, John, there's no need to blush. For the hundredth time, I didn't see anything I hadn't seen before. It's all natural and normal."

"And mine," John couldn't help but reply. He gave a deep, chesty cough that made both Mary and Sherlock frown. They could hear the cough rattling deep in his lungs.

"Here," Sherlock said, unscrewing the bottle of water. "Drink, if you can."

Mary helped John sit up slightly and take a sip before easing him down again.

"You need to get some sleep," she murmured, positioning the compress. John sighed – he _wanted_ to but until these two left, he knew it was a hopeless goal.

"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked and John shook his head.

"No."

"Can I get you anything?"

"Some peace and quiet would be ideal."

Mary looked pointedly at Sherlock.

"That means you, too," John said to Mary. Mrs. Watson looked down at her husband with a slight look of hurt on her face before kissing his temple.

"Of course, Love, whatever you say."

She moved off the bed and she and Sherlock left the bedroom, Mary closing the door behind her.

"Way to go," she scolded Sherlock. "Now we've both been kicked out. If you had just left earlier, at least one of us could be in there still."

"Why should it have been me who had to leave?" Sherlock asked, going into the kitchen and putting the kettle on. "Tea?"

"Because you're not the one who lives here … and you're offering _me my_ tea!" Mary exclaimed, following Sherlock into the kitchen.

"Do you want a cup?" Sherlock asked again and Mary sighed, rubbing her temples.

"Yes, please. And paracetamol."

Sherlock frowned over his two cups.

"You'd better not be getting ill as well. I won't nurse both you and John."

"I'm not ill, I'm annoyed!" Mary replied, stalking out to the sitting room. If Sherlock was going to offer Mary her own tea, he could at least bring it to her.

* * *

John was grateful when both Sherlock and Mary left the bedroom. His forehead was throbbing and his eyes aching due to the building pressure; his skin was hot and stiff and aching; his throat was dry and sore; he didn't feel like he could move a muscle without being in pain, which suited his queasy stomach just fine.

John closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep but instead found himself thinking about the arguments Sherlock and Mary had been having. It was an awkward position to be … his wife and best friend got on quite well (for which John was infinitely grateful) but when they butt heads, they really went at it. Of course, and not surprisingly, he was at the root of their problem.

He didn't want to take sides but their arguments were each convincing and simultaneously weak.

Yes, he was married to Mary. They shared a bond that he didn't have with Sherlock – thankfully. But it was a simple case of flu, something that you didn't need to have a whole lot of experience or training to be able to deal with. As long as someone was holding the bucket, John had to do the rest. Plus, though he would never say it, Mary had a tendency to hover when she was worried about John. It was endearing for the first while and then it became irritating.

However, Sherlock wasn't all roses, either. His arguments rested on the premise of knowing John longer and having taken care of him before. That, he thought, was a bit of a stretch. Yes, John had gotten sick while living at Baker Street and yes, _technically_ Sherlock had taken care of him … to the extent that standing next to his bed, a half-eaten piece of pizza in his hand and asking if he was alright while John projectile vomited was taking care of him. The doctor was actually surprised at the level of care he was receiving from Sherlock now as past experiences had demonstrated Sherlock's nursing skills were minimal.

John sighed again. This was complicated and had the potential to become a real problem for all three of them. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come.

* * *

Three hours later, mid-afternoon, John has a rather violent awakening. He'd finally managed to fall asleep but woke up and barely had time to sit up before throwing up. To say it had been a little would be an understatement; no, this was literally everywhere and more vomit than John would've guessed his stomach could produce.

A moment later, the door opened and Mary and Sherlock came rushing in.

"John!" Mary exclaimed, immediately going for a fresh face cloth while Sherlock picked his way around the splattering to the edge of the bed. He handed John the bin but stayed silently.

"What happened?" Mary asked as she, like Sherlock, moved carefully closer to John. She wiped down his mouth.

"Don't know," John murmured, hugging the bin and resting his forehead on its edge. "I was sleeping."

"Oh, Love," Mary said with a sigh. "It's alright. Do you feel like you're going to be sick again?"

John waited a minute before replying.

"I don't think so."

"A bath, then?"

John nodded and Sherlock wordlessly went to their bathroom and John could hear the water running. He felt Mary press a hand to his forehead.

"Not too hot, Sherlock," she called. "He's burning up."

John _hated_ this. He hated being a patient when he was supposed to be a doctor, he hated being so reliant on other people, and he hated being taken care of like a child.

"Can you walk?" Sherlock asked, returning to the bedroom. John wasn't sure on this front and said so.

"Well, given that the floor is rather covered in sick, maybe slide to the end of the bed," Mary suggested "And we'll go from there."

John nodded and let Mary take the bin, though she kept it close. He untangled himself from the sheets and then slowly scooted down the bed till his feet were resting on the floor. He shivered – it was cold.

"Here," Sherlock said, offering his hand. John gratefully took and slowly stood up. He felt dizzy but after a moment, was confident enough to walk into the bathroom. Goosebumps appeared on his arms when his feet touched the tile floor. Mary had followed them into the bathroom and set the bin on the closed toilet seat cover.

"Why don't you go clean up and I'll get him into the bath?" Sherlock suggested, having observed there was far less vomit on John than on the bed and floor.

"I don't think so," Mary said. "He's my husband. I'll get him into the bath. You can change the sheets and clean the floor."

"We've been over this; I've seen him naked before."

"And he didn't like it."

"Well, you're his wife so you should be the one to clean up after him."

Mary raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think so."

John was getting dizzy standing there and the smell of vomit was starting to get to him.

"Hey!" he exclaimed suddenly – and weakly. "I'm right here, you know, and while I appreciate both of your help, I think I should just do this on my own."

"John," Mary started but was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"No, I mean it!" John exclaimed. "You two have been bickering all day and it's done nothing to help. I'm a doctor, which makes me the most qualified to treat a simple case of flu, and I know my body better than either of you. I don't care who cleans up out there – if no one does, I will. It's my mess – but I am going to take a bath."

"John," Mary said again, touching his shoulder. John pulled away.

"No, please, leave. Both of you."

Mary sighed and turned to leave but Sherlock stayed put.

"John," he began but John frowned at him.

"You as well. Go."

Sherlock wordlessly left the room, pulling the door closed behind him and John sighed, sinking onto the edge of the tub. He was dizzy and exhausted but it was better to do this by himself than have to listen to those two go at it again.

Painstakingly, John stripped down and then got into the luke-warm bath, closing his eyes once he was in.

**Reviews are always appreciated! Thanks =) **


End file.
